


To Prove that I Love You

by capgal, grainnemhaolx



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-08 17:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11086779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capgal/pseuds/capgal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/grainnemhaolx/pseuds/grainnemhaolx
Summary: Sam wakes up around 5.Well, ‘wakes up’ may not quite be the correct word. It implies some form of sleep occurred prior to said waking up, which is not precisely true. It’s not that he didn’t get any rest at all, but the fretful drowsing-dozing he did is woefully inadequate to be called sleep.It wasn’t nightmares or flashbacks that kept him up this time, staring up at the dark-shrouded ceiling with tired eyes. No, the nightmares have been scarce for a while, allowing him to get peaceful, uninterrupted sleep most nights. That peace may have something to do with the two bodies curled up next to him in the oversized bed they share. In the quiet, it’s easy to hear the soft sound of Steve’s gentle snoring. Bucky’s metal arm is a considerable but comfortable weight around his waist, skin-warmed and reassuring. It’s quiet. It’s calm. It’s peaceful and comfortable and happy.Except, of course, the sleepless night.





	To Prove that I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> This is my work of the Captain America Reverse Bang! Shoutout to the artist, Grainne (grainnemhaolx on tumblr), not only for an adorably fluffy piece of art but also for being patient with me even when I was gone for ages. Thank you for letting me play around with your work! 
> 
> Also a thank-you to mccreesasshole on tumblr for kindly volunteering for a last-minute beta!
> 
> Title is from the classic Vera Lynn song "You'll Never Know" :  
>  _If there is some other way to prove that I love you,_  
>  _I swear I don't know how._  
>  _You'll never know if you don't know now_
> 
> -capgal

It’s not cold that wakes up Bucky.

Steve is plastered on his back, both legs and one arm somehow octopused all over him. The space between their bodies is warm, almost over-warm with twin super soldier body heat. Steve’s nose is a familiar tickle where it’s nestled in the gap between the base of his neck and his shoulder, snoring lightly. Bucky spends a few moments with his eyes closed, savouring the blessed moment. He’s not sure that there will ever come a day where he stops marvelling at the miracle of it all: those calm unperturbed wheeze-less breaths, the strong steady heartbeat, the impossible strength in impossible muscles. Hell, Steve’s very presence at his back, in his bed, is in itself enough of an unimaginable miracle. He wonders often what he’s done in this lifetime or any lifetimes past to deserve this soft happiness that by all rights should have been impossible a hundred times over.

It’s not the light that wakes him up, either.

Granted, it _is_ plenty bright in the room when he finally opens his eyes. The curtains are making barely a half-hearted attempt to keep out impatient sunlight. A stray beam sneaks in between the two sides of the curtains, dancing across the floor. It reaches playful fingers onto the exposed expanse of his metal arm, glinting joyfully; the harsh silver metal almost looks beautiful, illuminated as it is by blithe morning sun. Between his arm and the floor, the light pools in the crevices of crumpled sheets, in the dip of a head-dented pillow. The sheets and the pillow hold just enough residual heat to hint at the semi-recent presence of a warm body, and it mourns the absence.

It’s the said absence, the lack of a body that should have been there, that woke up Bucky. That, and the cold emptiness on the front of his body that came with it. Bucky stretches out an arm, lazy and feline, and gropes for his phone on the bedside table. When he turns on the screen, large white numbers cheerfully inform him that it’s not quite 6 am. Dropping the phone carelessly on the bed, he flops around to bury his face into his pillow. It’s an effective way to stifle the disgusted groan that falls from his lips.

It’s too early. Far, _far_ too early to be waking up, especially on what was supposed to be a peacefully and lazy day. Doubly so with a body missing in his bed.

He groans again into the pillow, just to make extra sure that the world is fully aware of his displeasure. _Too early_ . And then, because he is on occasion capable of being a functional and responsible human being, he drags his sleep-heavy muscles out of bed. Steve always sleeps like the dead, languid and lazy when missions don’t demand otherwise. He barely even stirs when Bucky extricates himself from octopus limbs and climb out of bed, much less notice the absence in their bed. Bucky lingers to press a fond kiss against Steve's sleep-slack jaw, but then forces himself to keep moving. Steve will be out cold for hours yet, and _someone’s_ gotta go find the missing person that’s strayed from the haven of their bed at this godforsaken hour of the morning.

The things Bucky does for love.

* * *

Sam wakes up around 5.

Well, ‘wakes up’ may not quite be the correct word. It implies some form of sleep occurred prior to said waking up, which is not precisely true. It’s not that he didn’t get any rest at all, but the fretful dozing he did is woefully inadequate to be called sleep.

It wasn’t nightmares or flashbacks that kept him up this time, staring up at the dark-shrouded ceiling with tired eyes. No, the nightmares have been scarce for a while—the irrational part of his mind pipes in that it probably means he’s due for a bad one, sometime soon, but he mostly tries to ignore that part—allowing him to get peaceful, uninterrupted sleep most nights. That peace may have something to do with the two bodies curled up next to him in the oversized bed they share. He spends a solitary moment revealing in his presence in their bed. In the quiet, it’s easy to hear the soft sound of Steve’s gentle snoring. Beside him, Bucky’s metal arm is a considerable but comfortable weight around his waist, skin-warmed and reassuring. It’s quiet. It’s calm. It’s peaceful and comfortable and happy.

Except, of course, the sleepless night.

Sam glances at his phone again: 5:08 am, it tells him, blissfully unaware or perhaps uncaring of his plight. He barely controls the urge to throw his hands up at the air, or maybe just curl up and cry, all too aware of both the childishness and the futility of the gesture. The desire is there, though, right next to the fretful uncertainty and frustration that have kept him company all night long.

Sleep is clearly a lost cause, at this point. Stray snatches of sunlight are already infiltrating the room past the flimsy barrier of the curtain. Damn the summer and stupid early sunrises. Sam usually doesn’t mind early mornings, even enjoys waking up with the sun for a run on occasion; it's the best coping method he knows for restless days when he needs the quiet of deserted streets and the stretch of muscles in exertion to settle him. He doesn't have anywhere near as much appreciation to spare at 5 am after a sleepless night staring sightless in a dark bedroom. With a soft groan, stifled only for the sake of his sleeping bed-mates, he forces sleep-deprived muscles into movement and rolls groggily out of bed.

If he’s not going to sleep, he might as well do something useful with himself.

By the time he stumbles into the kitchen and gulps down a glass of cold water, Sam feels a little bit better. Relatively speaking. Which is to say, he feels a little less like he might collapse in a puddle of tired uncertain frustration on the floor, or walk into the nearest wall due to a fatal inability to figure out groggy uncoordinated limbs. He’s self-aware enough to know that he’s not _well_ , but he’ll take what he can get right now. He glares briefly at the pot of cheerful yellow flowers sitting on the kitchen window sill, half-heartedly resenting its untroubled morning joy when he feels like lead held together by a few frayed strings.

Leaving his glass by the sink, he pads over to the fridge and stares uncomprehending at its contents for a few seconds. Breakfast. He can do breakfast, especially now with his newfound confidence in limb-controlling abilities. A pair of super soldiers tends to put away a _lot_ of food, even first thing in the morning. And, well, everyone likes waking up to hot breakfast in bed, don’t they? Sam’s no gourmet chef, but he knows his way around a kitchen, and he can definitely do breakfast. Besides, it will keep both his hands and his mind occupied, which is exactly what he needs right now. Breakfast it is, he decides, pulling out eggs and veggies and milk from the fridge.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a large omelette sizzling in the pan, with a small mound of chopped veggies and enough eggs for at least five more sitting next to the stove. Flour and butter and more eggs and milk wait on the counter, ready to be whipped into pancakes or waffles or whatever else his heart desires (and his culinary skills can support). He sprinkles a smattering of cheese on top of the omelette currently cooking, and then flips it in the air with a flick of his wrist. He’s willing to admit that he’s showing off a little, even though there’s an audience of precisely zero people to appreciate the flourish. It’s just fun, and it's reassuring to know that he can still do this. Besides, he _does_ need to stay in tip-top omelette-flipping shape, to make sure he’s ready the next time he cooks for an audience.

Another half-hour later, seven omelettes sit steaming on the table, waiting patiently. Sam still stands in front of the stove, this time with a pancake on the pan. A small stack already stands proudly at his side, piling up one by one. The waffle iron is out as well, warming up on the counter accompanied by its own large bowl of batter. A probably-sensible part of his brain reminds him that he might be going a _little_ overboard, but so far “two super soldier metabolisms” has proven to be enough of a counter argument to silence it. If there are leftovers, they can always eat them later, or perhaps invite the rest of the team over for a large group breakfast. That would be a fun, wholesome thing to do, wouldn't it?

Just as he's sliding the most recent pancake off the pan onto the waiting stack, a small noise catches Sam's attention. In his already frazzled state, the sound triggers all the old paranoid instincts in the back of his mind, and every muscle in his body seizes for a heart-stopping second of tension. He almost reaches for the sidearm he hasn't carried for years before the rational core of his mind wakes up enough to catch up. It reminds him firmly that buildings creak and groan all the time, especially decades-old apartments from the old days of New York. Besides, there are _two_ other people living in this apartment, so unknown noises should be, well, expected. Laughing quietly at himself, Sam convinces his ears to stop straining for every hint of another noise and pours another round circle of batter into the pan.

Seconds later, a pair of arms circles round his waist from behind, and it's only the recent intervention of his rational self that stops him from swinging a hot, batter-laden pan at the other person’s head. "I swear to fuck, Barnes," he says instead, once his heart has stopped trying to leap out of his chest. He knows it's Bucky, because only Bucky walks around silent and soundless as a fucking ninja. "How many times do I have to tell you not to ghost around like that? Make some goddamn noise! You know, like normal people, not a fucking cat or something."

"Mmmmmm," is all Bucky says in response. His nose is nuzzling the back of Sam's neck. It's a little ticklish, but mostly just... nice. Familiar and comforting.

"One of these days, I'm gonna smack you with the nearest heavy object," Sam adds, unwilling to bend so easily at the simple touch. "I have a hot pan right now! And there's like, fifty knives around me! What if you surprised me too much and I stabbed you?" He picks up the nearest knife and waves it around for emphasis.

"Can't," Bucky says, entirely unperturbed by the sharp object dancing a foot away from his face. "Super soldier. Reflexes. Metal arm." His breath is a warm caress, flowing across the back of Sam’s neck and past his ears.

Sam shivers lightly, and then snorts to cover it up. "Are you gonna speak a full sentence anytime soon?" he demands, nudging Bucky with an elbow. He hits metal arm instead of soft flesh, and the impact rattles up his arm in tingles. _Ow._

"Nope,” Bucky says, unrepentant. A hint of a smirk laces his voice, and Sam’s almost certain that he knows the nudge-turned-elbow-smack hurt just a little, the smug bastard. “Too early. Your fault."

"Hey..." Sam trails off, suddenly guilty. The last thing he wanted was to have disturbed Bucky’s sleep. It wasn’t every day that they got to sleep in, battered as they were between Avengers-worthy emergencies and more mundane but more frequent nightmares. Both Bucky and Steve had looked so warm and comfortable and happy this morning, tangled up in each other and the bed sheets. He hates to think that he might have been the one to break that quiet peace. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

"Nuh-uh. Not without you.” The words should sound childish, but all it does is warm something cold and tired in the pit of Sam’s stomach. The arms around his torso tug him a little closer, pressing their bodies together. Bucky isn’t wearing anything except a pair of boxers, and Sam can feel every inch of body heat and firm muscles through the thin material of his t-shirt. “Come back to bed. ‘S too early to be awake. Even you.”

A significant portion of Sam wants to just melt into Bucky’s arms; it’s warm there, warm and soft and comforting. But there’s also a stubborn part of him that insists on resisting. The same voice that kept him up all night pipes up again to remind him that there’s a reason he’s out of bed now. Torn between the two, Sam hesitates and stalls. "I don't know if you noticed, but I currently have a pancake on the stove. On a hot stove. With fire. You wouldn’t want me to set the house on fire, now would you?"

"Uh-huh,” Bucky responds, not bothering to hide how unconvinced he is. “Why are you making breakfast? It's like, two in the morning."

"Six fifteen, thank you very much,” Sam shoots back, almost automatic. He tries to ignore just how the question hits, just how dangerously close to the unpleasant core of the problem it comes.

"Not an answer," Bucky says. The man can be damn perceptive when he wants to, and apparently he’s choosing now as a prime moment to exercise that skill. He reaches out to turn the stove off, and then gently grabs Sam's shoulder to turn him around. His eyes, though laced around with sleep, are piercing in the early morning light. "You gonna tell me why you're in the kitchen at six fifteen in the morning on a Saturday?"

"It's nothing," Sam deflects, unwilling to admit anything now that Bucky’s asking head-on. It’s hard to look him in the eyes, though, so he settles for staring vaguely in the direction of his chest. A fascinating view, really, and it’s a shame Sam's too distracted to appreciate it fully. "It's nothing, I promise. Let's just go back to bed."

"Uh-huh. Real convincing, Sammy.” Sam doesn’t need to look up to know that Bucky’s raising an eyebrow, sarcasm written thick on his face. “I know you stress cook," Bucky adds, firm and final like the last blow of a battle.

It lands with the same kind of deadly precision, crumbling what little defenses Sam had left. It wasn’t like he really _wanted_ to be resisting, anyway. He leans into Bucky, burying his head into Bucky’s chest. Bucky makes a soft noise and wraps his arms around Sam’s torso, a hand lifting to land heavy and comforting on his shoulders. "It's... it's really nothing,” Sam mumbles, even though he knows his entire body language is belying his words. “I don't... it's stupid, don't worry about it."

"Nothing that stresses you out is stupid,” Bucky says sagely. The hand across Sam’s waist tightens just a little, pressing him that much closer against the front of Bucky’s body. “That's what my therapist always told me. And you agreed with her! Are you gonna go against your own advice, you hypocrite?"

"You're a menace, I swear to God,” Sam says, a tired chuckle slipping from his lips.

"And you're still not answering the question,” Bucky prods. “C’mon, Sam, what’s up?”

“Don’t… I just…” Sam can’t quite make the words come out. It feels like they’re stuck halfway up his throat, making it suddenly hard to breathe. His eyes flit towards the living room wall, where a calendar hangs morosely. There's nothing there to mark the date, nothing to show that today is any different from the thirty other days in the month, but that doesn't stop Sam from feeling one particular number staring back at him balefully.

He feels more than he hears Bucky take a sharp breath. He borrows a little deeper in the cocoon of Bucky’s arms, wishing that he could prolong this moment longer before the truth comes tumbling out, harsh and unblinking in the light-bathed kitchen. “Oh,” Bucky breathes, quiet and understanding. “ _Oh_. Sam… It’s today, isn’t it?” The words are a question, but he says them like a statement, like a wish, like an apology.

Sam can’t bring himself to speak, but he takes a deep breath and makes himself nod against the bare skin of Bucky’s chest. The smattering of chest hair scratches lightly against his face, and Sam tries to focus on the sensation instead of the rising dread in his stomach.

“Just to make absolutely sure,” Bucky says slowly, “because communication is important and all that—you’re hiding out in the kitchen stress-cooking at an ungodly hour of morning, because it’s me and Steve’s anniversary today?”

The words are innocuous, should be innocuous, but they stab at Sam like a dozen knives. He nods again, uncertain and dejected, feeling all of seven years old.

“And you… what? You thought we’d throw you out of bed as soon as we woke up?” Bucky asks, an edge of a frustrated huff on his voice. “Thought we’d leave you high and dry and go gallivanting off all on our own?”

“Who the fuck says gallivanting,” Sam says instead of responding. His voice, mercifully, comes out steadier and stronger than he’s feeling.

“It’s a perfectly good word, thank you very much,” Bucky responds automatically, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Sam wasn’t really expecting him to, anyway. “And you’re _really_ avoiding the questions today, Sam.”

“I just…” Sam whispers, hesitant and unsure of himself all over again. “It’s _your_ day, you know? You and Steve, I mean. It’s been like eighty years, and you gotta have your own traditions or something. I don’t know. A favourite restaurant you go to. A hidden spot in Central Park you went to at night to make out like the pair of teenagers you were. Some secret Brooklyn haunts. I didn’t… I didn’t wanna get in the way.” The final words leave him in a rush, a desperate gasp, a confession he couldn’t quite stop himself from saying.

“You thought there wouldn’t be room for you today,” Bucky says, and Sam almost flinches from the words. The nasty voice that kept him up all night rises up again, cruel and vindictive. No place for him here, between two boys who grew up together, who have loved each other for an entire lifetime, who loved and lost and found each other again through the Depression and war and death and brainwashing. No place for him _always_ , but especially not today. A brief silence settles over them, suffocating and heavy with the weight of fears unvoiced.

“I wonder,” Bucky says suddenly, pensive. “What do you wanna do on our anniversary?”

“What?” Sam demands, completely thrown off by the unexpected question.

“Our anniversary,” Bucky reiterates, each syllable drawn out and exaggeratedly slow. “You and me. It’s in like two months! It’s never too early to plan for these things. It’s an important occasion.”

“I… I don’t know,” Sam says, still utterly confused. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Go to a nice restaurant maybe? Something fun. Why are you asking me this now?”

“We’ll have to tell Steve, I suppose,” Bucky continues, placidly ignoring Sam’s question.

“Tell him what?” Sam asks, his confusion only mounting with every word. He’s almost sure there’s something _big_ he’s missing, but the feeling doesn’t help him figure out _what_ said big thing is.

“That he’s not welcome of course,” Bucky says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We can’t have him interrupting our day. Maybe I’ll tell him to go spend the night at Tony’s or something.”

“What?” Sam barely restrains himself from shouting. “What the _fuck_ , Bucky, why would you _do_ that?” He can almost imagine Steve's face already, hangdog and hurt but unwilling to deny them anything. He'd go, Sam knows. He'd go, and he'd spend the night morose and moping, and come back the next day as if nothing had never happened. The image pains him somewhere deep, and he glares up at Bucky with a mix of confusion and deep offense on Steve's behalf.

“Because you’re a real smart man, Sam, but sometimes you’re a fucking idiot.” Bucky’s voice is an exasperated huff, but the fondness of his face overpowers it completely.

“I don’t… I don’t get…. what?” Sam mumbles intelligently. He tries to ignore just how brilliantly he’s illustrating the _fucking idiot_ part of Bucky’s declaration.

“It wouldn’t be okay to kick Steve out for our anniversary,” Bucky points out, as if preparing to walk him through a very obvious puzzle.

“Of fucking course not,” Sam says vehemently. “That’s… that’s cruel and mean and unnecessary.”

“So then, Sam,” Bucky says patiently, “why the fuck do you think Steve and I would kick _you_ out for our anniversary?”

 _Oh_.

“It’s… That’s not the same,” Sam denies. It’s a weak defense, and he knows it; he just doesn’t quite want to fold so easily to Bucky’s logic. “You’ve been together for like twice as long as I’ve been alive.”

“And I started going out with you before him, this time around,” Bucky counters. “It _is_ the exact same thing, Wilson, and you know it. You just don’t wanna admit I’m right.”

Sam stays silent for a long minute, burying his face back into the space between Bucky’s chest and his arms. The shadows in his mind are receding, mostly, but the dark corners are still screaming, insisting that Bucky’s wrong, that he can’t possibly be welcome today. “I just didn’t… I thought you’d want to be by yourselves. Without me,” he admits finally, dragging out the last bit of dark poison.

“What we _want_ is to spend the day with our fella,” Bucky says, his voice so full of conviction that it allows no room for uncertainty, for argument. “What we want is to celebrate being alive and in love. _Together_ . And by that I mean all of us, Sam. Not just me and Steve. _All_ of us. Yeah, sure, it's an important day for us. And yeah, we had our own little tradition back then. But it's not the forties anymore, and we're not the same people, either. Our _relationship_ is not the same anymore, and you're a large part of the reason why. It wouldn't be the same without you, Sam. It wouldn't be complete. We'd be missing you the whole damn time. I know Steve's asleep like the dead and therefore unavailable to back me up, but I swear he'd say the same thing. I'll go wake him up if you wanna hear him say it too, but I don't need to hear him to know it's true.”

Sam lets out a quiet, choked sound, and Bucky’s arms pull him closer. With the reassurance of Bucky’s arms and the echoes of Bucky’s words in his ears, the shadows slink away mostly into nothingness—and what remains, he’s able to recognize as irrational. He spends a few more minutes just breathing, convincing the last stubborn bits of himself that it’s _fine_ . Finally, when he’s almost sure that he won’t fall apart instantly, he peels his face away from Bucky’s chest to look up with a wry smile. “Since when are _you_ the well-adjusted one?” he mutters jokingly.

Bucky lets out a faux-offended gasp, dramatically widening his eyes. “Excuse you! I’m _plenty_ well adjusted, thank you very much. Besides, _you_ decided to be an idiot.” He jabs an accusing finger at Sam’s chest, then. “ _Someone’s_ gotta be the sensible one around here, and Stevie’s hopeless in the morning when he decides to be lazy. So, tragically, the burden falls upon me. It’s a good thing I’m a responsible, reliable man.”

Sam laughs, still a little shaky but mostly relieved. “Of course you are. The epitome of responsible, reliable men. The best of the best.”

“I _am_ capable of comprehending sarcasm,” Bucky says haughtily. “Contrary to popular belief, the twenty-first century didn’t invent that one.”

Sam just laughs again, feeling lighter than he has all week. He throws a glance around the kitchen, eyes lingering on the seven plates of omelettes and the tall stack of pancakes. “There is a possibility I made too much breakfast,” he observes. “A small possibility, but it’s there nonetheless.”

“Nonsense,” Bucky dismisses. “It’s me and Steve, we can eat _all_ of it. Later. For brunch.” He grabs Sam by the arm and starts to pull him away.

“It’ll get cold!” Sam protests, resisting in the interest of preserving some semblance of dignity.

“That’s what microwaves are for,” Bucky says, and continues to drag him down the hallway. “I swear, Sam, it’s like you turned off _all_ your brain cells today.”

Sam mutters something that _might_ be an obscenity under his breath.

“I can hear you, you know,” Bucky says blithely. “Super soldier hearing, remember? Brain cells, Sam. Turn ‘em back on. Or don’t, actually, I wanna go back to sleep and you're gonna think too loudly if I let you.”

When they push the bedroom door open, Steve looks up groggily from the bed. His eyes are still half-closed, and his voice is scratchy when he speaks. “Wha… Where the fuck were you two? It’s like three am."

“Six-thirty,” Sam and Bucky correct at the same time. Sam hears the echo of his own voice, correcting Bucky a mere fifteen minutes ago. He glances over at Bucky, only to find him staring right back. The eye contact lasts for a second of shared amusement, and then they burst into giggles, no longer able to hold it back.

“What’s so funny?” Steve asks, bleary and confused. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing, Stevie, go back to sleep,” Bucky soothes as he climbs into bed next to him. “Sam’s just being a dumbass, don’t worry about it.”

“Hey!” Sam exclaims, indignant.

“Be nice, Bucky,” Steve scolds. The force of the reprimand is completely undermined by the yawn that follows it, and the way he flops back onto the pillow like an large, uncoordinated fish.

“Mr. Genius here thought we wouldn’t want him around,” Bucky says, turning around the glare at Sam. He pats the bed, an expectant brow leaping up his forehead. Sam obligingly crawls in, curling up against Bucky’s side.

“Wha… why?” Steve says, frowning. His sleepiness accentuates his confusion, and Sam stifles a giggle at how incongruently adorable a picture it makes. The great Steve Rogers, all golden hair and shining blue eyes, with sleep etched in every line of body and his face pinched together a confused frown at six-thirty on a Saturday morning. It’s adorable and beautiful and domestic, and the shaky edges of Sam’s psyche settles a little further at the sight.

“Because it’s our anniversary,” Bucky says, spurred on by Steve’s bafflement.

“But… why? That doesn’t make any sense,” Steve mumbles, still frowning. He reaches out a sleep-clumsy hand to pat at Sam’s shoulder. It lands heavily across Sam’s back, briefly driving the breath out of his lungs, but he doesn’t complain; the weight feels good right now, heavy and real and present.

“That’s what I told him,” Bucky says, smug as a cat.

“Tattletale,” Sam accuses, but there’s no real force behind his word. Bucky sticks his tongue out at him, childish and unrepentant.

“You just hate that I’m right this time” Bucky mumbles, his eyes already closed.

"I always want you around," Steve adds, sounding most of the way to asleep. "You're nice and you're brave and you're so strong. And, and you're really, _really_ beautiful. I love you."

Sam can feel blood rushing to his face, heating his cheeks. He doesn't resist as his lips twitch into a dopey grin, although he does turn his head so his face is half-hidden by the pillow. "Sap," he says, trying to hide how much Steve's sleepy words have affected him. He's pretty sure he's not successful, not one bit, but no one calls him out on it. "I love you too, Steve."

“Uh-huh, and I love you both. Now shuddup and sleep," Bucky says. "You made me wake up at six, so you’re gonna let me sleep until at _least_ noon.” He blindly throws out an arm, piling on top of Steve’s and embracing Sam. Sam shamelessly curls closer, burrowing into the warmth of Bucky’s body, and closes his eyes.

* * *

Later, they will wake up slowly, unperturbed by the streaming sunlight. They will go back to the kitchen and clean up the aftermath of Sam’s stress-cooking morning. They will finish making the mountain of food that Sam has left behind--waffles and toast and scrambled eggs and even more pancakes. Bucky will stick his metal hand on a hot stove, as always; Steve will scold him, as always, and Bucky will unrepentantly declare his metal arm cannot be injured by heat, as always. They will reheat omelettes and pancakes that will waiting patiently for their time. They will share a companionable brunch, quiet and content and satisfied. They will demolish every bite of food between them, because super soldier appetites are formidable things, even after a lazy morning spent tangled up in bed. The dishes will stay undone, stacked haphazard in the kitchen sink for another time.

Later still, they will dress each other in ridiculous summer clothes. They will put on dark sunglasses and hats in a vain attempt at disguise. They will walk out into the city together, hand in hand in hand, happy and in love and at peace. They might walk across Central Park, licking half-melted ice cream from sticky fingers; they might find a quiet, secluded spot, and settle in for a picnic. Or they might go to the waterside, Long Beach or Brighton or Rockaway. They will lounge in the cool water, making super soldier-sized splashes and laughing like children. They will lie in the sun, and neither Steve nor Bucky will worry about sunscreen because super soldier serums protect them from pesky human concerns like sunburn. They will race each other in the ocean, swimming out a mile or two like it’s child’s play. They will watch the sun set over the horizon, and they will stay out until the stars come out, twinkling above the quiet whisper of waves. Or perhaps they will go out to Coney Island, to the old haunts that Steve and Bucky remember so fondly. They will walk side-by-side, obnoxious and unrepentant as they take up the entire width of the boardwalk. They will watch the people pass by, playing at making up stories. Bucky will spend unreasonable amounts of money at a fair stand until he wins a satisfactorily large prize. Steve will sketch on napkins and ticket-stubs, because he always forgets his sketchbook on days like this. Sam will watch them both, besotted and unashamed of it.

Or maybe they will just spend the day here, like this: in bed and in love, comfortable and warm and happy. They will squeeze onto a couch never meant to fit two super soldiers and an Avenger, contorting their bodies into bizarre but surprisingly comfortable positions. They will watch a movie or two, and order pizza from the old hole-in-the-wall that Bucky adores and Sam pretends to dismiss as hipster. They will fall asleep there, with pizza boxes scattered on the living room table and limbs overflowing from the couch.

Or maybe, Sam thinks, maybe they will be woken up in an hour with an urgent call for the Avengers. Even that would not be able to ruin the charm of the day. They will walk out in uniform, strong and badass and capable. They will fight the good fight, because the world is worth saving. They will stand by one another’s side and watch one another’s backs. They will fight together, the three of them and the rest of the Avengers. And when it is finally over—when evil is defeated and the world is as safe again as it will ever be—they will come home, together. They will fall back into bed, battered and exhausted but proud.

And this time, Sam will sleep deeply, warm and sure and happy, wedged between the two men he loves dearly, and who love him just as dearly.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. It has been brought to my attention that apparently the image embed is broken.  
> Please find the beautiful art [here](http://grainnemhaolx.tumblr.com/post/161499152608/my-cap-reverse-big-bang-art-at-long-last-i-was) while I attempt to figure out how to fix it.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://capgal.tumblr.com)!


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